


Hard Enough

by Jenwryn



Category: Death Note
Genre: Angst, F/M, Genderswitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-16
Updated: 2009-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only if you try hard enough... AU, mafia!era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Nnnn, this was not exactly what I was planning on posting by way of returning after my fanfic absence. But I got melodramatic and whiny this afternoon, and somehow this was the result so... there you have it. My apologies for the crazy use of second person; the POV is obviously girl!Matt's. If this entire thing makes no sense to anyone, I won't be at all surprised, OTL. I also apologise in advance to the die-hard Matt/Mello fans. |D;

_You mustn't have tried hard enough. _

If you try hard enough, they say, if you smile sweetly enough, if you love well enough, then everything, absolutely everything, will somehow turn out okay. It's one of those things that people tell each other, without actually saying a word. It's as if there's a secret recipe out there somewhere and, if you get it all mixed right, and the oven just perfect, you'll end up with raspberry cupcakes. Hollywood murmurs the same promise, taking possession of the flickering faces on the television screen, when you're up too late for the umpteenth time; always up too late, always later than you wanted, just because he asked you. Just because he's convinced himself, somehow, that you actually give a shit about Kira, that you actually give a shit about anything at all, except him. And the television, it hums delusions and smiling faces. Even your music joins the conspiracy, depending on which album you slide to, smooth on the touchpad of your player. 

_If you cling and you claw and you beg and you love and you need and you pray and you fuck hard enough, good enough, everything will turn out wonderfully, in the end. _

Welcome to the modern fairy tale; watch them weave it from the metro billboards to the lipgloss ads.

And oh, how you hate them for it. 

You hate them, as his skilful, lovely body takes you all the way to the edge of glory, only to have his mouth shatter it when he grunts out a name that is not yours. You hate them, as he pulls himself from within you, trailing sticky kisses on your forehead, peering at you, through pleasure-hooded eyes; believing your words, when you assure him it was good. You hate them, when he falls asleep with his head against your arm, blond hair like scattered thoughts, and dreams of Kira and victory and vengeance, and whatever else fills that clever head of his, and no idea, not the slightest awareness, of the name he's spoken but a moment before. Just one word, but dragged out, stuttered, as if it had been wrenched from his very bones, until the_ N_, which began it, became overwhelming. You hate them, as you curl up and pretend to sleep, and see nothing but the white of dice and playing cards dancing upon the insides of your eyelids.

_And it's not even Mello's fault. Really, it isn't._

It actually becomes something close to hilarious, when you've been drinking. When you sit with your bare feet in his lap, stroking him through his jeans, his face flushed and his eyes, for once, on you alone. When you slur the truth at him, _you think you're fighting Near but you're not, you're not, you're so fucking no__t_, and he's too drunk to do anything but leer, and maybe tug you closer, with his hands on your ankles. Hilarious, because at least it reminds you that you're not the only one being figuratively fucked by the universe. And the white-haired boy has screwed you both, after all, without so much as laying one finger on warm skin. Now, there's irony for you. 

Ah, but you hate them, though, the myth-sellers, when he falls asleep against you like this, so quiet for once, so close to peaceful, breath steady and scented of toothpaste and underlying chocolate. When he falls asleep, and you can think, just for a moment, just for the tiniest moment, that there's actually a chance they might be right. That there's actually a chance that, if you push all the right buttons and make all the right moves, somehow, he might not belong to neither a false god, nor a dead idol, nor even a boy with an armful of toys. That there's actually a chance, however slim, that he might truly belong to you. 

_But sometimes, sometimes even the whole world wouldn't be enough.  
_


End file.
